


Real-Life Wired

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Midtown, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-21
Updated: 2005-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody loves you when you're rock and roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real-Life Wired

"Listen," he says casually, mildly, almost disinterestedly, and who knows, he might just be. Disinterested, that is. Leaning back, drink in hand, barely looking at your face and barely even speaking to you at all. "Listen," he says. "Gabe. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fuck you, I'll suck your cock, I'll jerk you off if that's what you want. The only thing I won't do is," and then he blinks, and giggles, maybe a little, like a schoolgirl that's just gotten caught sneaking out of her bedroom late at night. And he says: "We'll find out." And then he goes back to finishing his drink, and you sit there pretending your dick isn't hard and pretending you're not just counting the minutes until he's done. Until you're done.

And then you're dancing, kind of. Or just grinding against one another, and Mikey's still sipping that damn drink of his (fruity cherry red concoction that stains his lips an even deeper shade of pink), and ignoring your hard-on, and ignoring your hand on the back of his shirt, and ignoring you. Sweat and dust and slippery, hot bodies and you're hard now, but he doesn't seem to care, and so you wait. His knee between yours, briefly, your bodies grinding together. Like you were fucking, almost. Almost being everything that matters right now.

There's a joke, about a chicken, a man and a bathtub, and a hole he's trying to plug his dick into. It's a funny joke, but possibly you forgot to bring the funny, and the joke, and instead chose to tell him about your opinion on chicken. Opinion being: That it should always be deep fried. Not steamed, not grilled, baked, poached, roasted or shredded and lathered in mayonnaise to turn into some sandwich filling. Deep fried, artery-busting chicken with the skin on. But he's smiling, leaning against you, hiccuping gently against your throat. And then he throws his drink down your shirt. It's cold as hell and you go "Fuck. Mikey. Fuck." Fuck again, when it drips down the front of your pants, and now you're not hard anymore, just pissed off.

But he runs his hands down your arms soothingly and says easily, "We should go, yeah," and yeah, why not? In some hotel room - His, maybe. His brother's, probably. His mouth curls when he mentions Gerard, and you feel a twitch, but you don't ask about these things, because it's impolite. Because it's just not done. Funny thing: you on your knees, not him. And he's smoking a cigarette, and you didn't even know he smoked, but there you go. And he's smoking a cigarette, and he's as drunk as you are, and you're not even sure you're there. Looking up from under your lashes, he looks bored, almost distracted, the cigarette about the only thing that's holding his interest. The only sign that shows that he knows you're there is his free hand, coming to pet your head lazily, slide down to your neck. There there. His fingers are hot, calloused, his palms rough as sandpaper. And when he comes, it's as unexpectedly as anything else, really, and his reaction is about as expected as anything else. You cough, and swallow, discreetly. Your knees hurt and your hands are shaking and his come is on your chin but you can't be bothered to wipe it off, you just kneel there, breathing more harshly than he's done the whole night.

And then he flicks his cigarette, little pieces of ash falling to the floor, "I could do you now, if you want."

And you say, "Yeah, well, you promised."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written when Gabe Saporta was still Gabe from Midtown. About that picture. You know the one.


End file.
